‘Maxwell! is that you? I thought you were dead. Have a drink,’ producing a flask, at which I was delighted to have a pull.
The siege was over, another winter had passed in luxury compared with the one that had gone before, summer was coming again, and the Sebastopol heights were clothed with flowers, which hid both shot and shell beneath their green leaves. Peace was made, and we were all dreaming of home.
I was paying a visit to Sir Houston Stewart, in his flagship, the Hannibal, commanded by my old friend, Sir John Hay. We had a most pleasant party, among whom was Sir Henry Bernard, a genial and agreeable companion. He now lies in his grave in front of Delhi. A man-of-war, the Belleisle, was reported as having arrived, and it was decided that the 88th Regiment should return to England in her. I was ordered to telegraph to the regiment, and next day they embarked. We were all in the greatest spirits. I bid adieu to the kind admiral and all friends in the Hannibal, and proceeded on board the Belleisle. A fatigue party of the regiment was engaged at the capstan when a fearful accident happened. I cannot tell what the cause of it was, but I believe the man who watched the chain neglected his duty. I can only state, however, what occurred. All of a sudden the chain ran out with great velocity, round went the capstan, and out flew the bars like porcupine quills. I was standing on the poop, and one of the capstan bars hit me on the face and marked me for life; but, far worse, a soldier, named Burke, who had been all through the siege, was killed outright. Another man had his leg broken, and others were wounded severely. Sir Houston Stewart telegraphed home that the accident had occurred, and that I was all right. I am glad he did so, for my brother had received the telegram, before he read in a Scotch paper that I was killed.
As we sailed away from Kamiesch Bay the Hannibal manned the yards, and the officers and men of the Connaught Rangers loudly cheered farewell as we left the shores of the Crimea for ever. We were towed by H.M.S. Firebrand, commanded by a most agreeable officer, Captain the Honourable Spencer, whom it has never been my fortune to meet since those days.
The Firebrand remained with us till we arrived at the coast of Portugal, when she left us, owing to cholera being very bad on board her. We touched at Malta and Gibraltar, and anchored at the mouth of the Tagus. As cholera was raging at Lisbon, we were not allowed to land, but Captain Hoskins, our commander, asked me to accompany him in a sail in the cutter to Belem and Lisbon. We paid a visit to a man-of-war lying off the latter place, and met a young artillery officer on his way home from the Crimea. He was in great spirits, and had a dog he had brought with him from Sebastopol. He wanted me to land at Lisbon, and laughed a good deal when I informed him that we were not allowed to do so, owing to the prevalence of cholera. He said he had been often in the town, and was always quite well. We returned, however, to the Belleisle without landing.
Next morning, before putting to sea, Captain Hoskins received some letters from Lisbon, and startled us very much when he announced the death from cholera of that young officer we had met the day before. In process of time we arrived at Portsmouth. It was home-like to see once more the gay yachts skimming about between Cowes and Ryde; for it was the summer season. We landed, and were ordered to Aldershot, where we had the honour of parading before Her Majesty the Queen—two thousand strong. What a grand regiment might have been picked out of these splendid men! but most of them were discharged. The Indian Mutiny then broke out, but the best part of these warriors had been sent out of the service, and we bitterly felt their loss.
We came home in July, 1856, and in July, 1857, the Connaught Rangers embarked for India in course of relief.
When the 88th went out to India in 1857, as before mentioned, it was for the usual relief, and not in consequence of the mutiny; for, when we left the shores of Britain on the 9th of July, the terrible facts of the insurrection were unknown to us. I was in command of the left wing, which embarked at Portsmouth on board the good ship Ulysses, to proceed round the Cape to Calcutta. The Ulysses was a fine sailing vessel, chartered by Government to carry troops; her usual passengers being emigrants. The captain was a worthy Scotchman, but his ideas of comfort were limited. The morning we embarked, my brother having come to see me off, I asked him to breakfast on board. There was bread, and tea, and a bowl of boiled eggs, but no milk or butter. My brother took an egg and broke the shell, it was bad; he took another, it was worse; so he gave it up as a bad job, but the captain encouraged him to go on by saying, ‘Crack awa, crack awa, ye’ll soon come to a good yin.’ I was obliged to make a report to the proper authorities, and the worthy man was enlightened as to the fact that officers of Her Majesty’s regiments in those days were not to be treated like emigrants; and for the future we were fed in a cleaner and more wholesome manner. At Spithead we bade adieu to relations, friends, and acquaintances. And thirteen years passed away before I again looked upon the fair Isle of Wight and England’s shores.
Our honest skipper, although quite unaccustomed to deal with gentlemen passengers, was a very kindly man. Evidently, in his former voyages, he had seen many a disagreeable quarrel among his emigrants, for he was very much afraid of any unpleasantness occurring. I proposed starting a newspaper, to be called the Ulysses Gazette, which was to come out every Saturday, in which anyone who pleased might write an article.
The old captain looked alarmed.